There was a small flurry at the door and Toni Lansing, in a simple white dress like a tennis frock, came in. She walked rapidly and with enormous composure to her place at the reception table, followed by a young naval officer carrying her light fur-­collared coat. She apologized to the Commander for being late, then ducked under the table and came up on the other side next to him, as if it was far too much trouble to go all the way down to the end and back. She looked up brightly at the boys who, one and all, stared at her, and she signified humorously, with an inviting little pantomime which seemed good-naturedly to burlesque her celebrity, that she was ready and willing to give out autographs all night long if anyone should be so foolish as to want one. During the little performance she managed with charming tact to convey the impression that they would be doing her a favor instead of the other way around.

Billie Hauman gazed enthralled. Grandin himself could not but be impressed, though for different reasons. It was curious to look at that slight figure and realize what an enormous earning capacity she had, what an extraordinary amount of money she attracted to box offices throughout the country, and what she meant, in romance and glamour, to millions of men and women. Apart from her skill, Toni Lansing had little to do with it. It was an illusion: something that existed only on the screen or in the frustrations of many humdrum lives. . . .

Suddenly all conversations ceased and the entire place came to attention, respectful and grave. It was a full moment before John Grandin realized that the national anthem was being played.